You know, sometimes I wonder why I bother trying because every time I think I'm all that, lookin' good, feelin' hip, something reminds me that I'm pretty much a walking dufuss.
There was an incident, not too long ago, when I had just come out of a business meeting, went to the bathroom and saw that I had a big ass clump of mascara under one eye, leaving a trail of black ooze on its descent toward my cheek. The code was violated. No one told me. I'm sure someone saw something yet said nothing.
There is a code, people. A nice way to tell others they have something terribly embarrassing going on, and that they better rectify it immediately or risk being labeled "that freak".
You see, I go to the gym on my lunch hour, and on that particular day, which I've now dubbed "mascara mayhem", I had inadvertently made the mistake of not checking my makeup before heading back to the office.
I had just finished an especially challenging spinning class and sweat like a hog. You'd think I would have stopped in front of a mirror to assess the situation. What can I say? Sometimes, I ain't plugged in. So I went merrily on my way, thinking for hours that I looked socially acceptable.
Except I didn't. And those surrounding me remained silent. Do I exact revenge, or decide to forgive? The next time someone has a big honkin' piece of spinach stuck in their teeth, maybe I'll just smile and nod. When there's a trail of toilet paper under someone's shoe, and they're dragging it around like an idiot, I might take a secret video and post it on YouTube. I'm not a forgiving person.
Too much cleavage? I'll laugh as everyone stares in either disbelief or lust. Ass crack hangin' out? I'll point it out, yelling "plumber's butt!". Muffin top over too tight pants? I might ask: "blueberry or chocolate chip?"
Have no doubt, the evil giant has been stirred and is not content. I spend far too much time obsessing about my appearance to simply forgive others for letting me walk around looking like I've been punched in the eye. That ain't cool, yo.